Self-control: A Novel

'Ungrateful! selfish that I am,' exclaimed Laura suddenly dashing the tears from her eyes, 'thus to think only of my own loss, while I am giving pain to the worthiest of hearts. – My best friend, I cannot indeed return the regard with which you honour me, but I can make you cease to wish that I should. And I deserve the shame and anguish I shall suffer. She, whom you honour with your love,' continued she, the burning crimson glowing in her face and neck, 'has been the sport of a passion, strong as disgraceful – disgraceful as its object is worthless.'

Her look, her voice, her manner conveyed to De Courcy the strongest idea of the torture which this confession cost her; and no sufferings of his own could make him insensible to those of Laura. 'Cease, cease,' he cried, 'best and dearest of women, do not add to my wretchedness the thought of giving pain to you.' Then, after a few moments pause, he continued, 'it would be wronging your noble candour to doubt that you have recalled your affections.' 'In doing so,' answered Laura, 'I can claim no merit. Infatuation itself could have been blind no longer.' 'Then why, dearest Laura,' cried De Courcy, his heart again bounding with hope, 'why may not time and the fond assiduities of love' – 'Ah!' interrupted Laura, 'that is impossible. A mere preference I might give you, but I need not tell you that I have no more to give.' 'My heavenly Laura,' cried De Courcy, eager joy beaming in his eyes, 'give me but this preference, and I would not exchange it for the fondest passion of woman-kind.' 'You deceive yourself,' said Laura mournfully, 'miserably deceive yourself. Such a sentiment could never content you. You would miss a thousand little arts of happiness which love alone can teach; observe a thousand nameless coldnesses which no caution could conceal; and you would be unhappy without knowing perhaps of what to complain. You, who would deserve the warmest affection to be content with mere endurance! Oh no, I should be wretched in the bare thought of offering you so poor a return.'

'Endurance, Laura! I should indeed be a monster to find joy in any thing which you could describe by such a word. But must I despair of awakening such affection as will make duty delightful, such as will enjoy the bliss which it bestows?'

'Believe me, my dear friend,' said Laura in a voice as sweet, as soothing, as ever conveyed the tenderest confession, 'believe me I am not insensible to the value of your regard. It adds a new debt of gratitude to all that Montreville's daughter owes you. My highest esteem shall ever be yours, but after what I have confided to you, a moment's consideration must convince you that all beyond is impossible.' 'Ah!' thought De Courcy, 'what will it cost me to believe that it is indeed impossible.' But Laura's avowal was not quite so fatal to his hopes as she imagined; and while she supposed that he was summoning fortitude to endure their final destruction, he stood silently pondering Mrs De Courcy's oft repeated counsel to let love borrow the garb of friendship, nor suffer him undisguised to approach the heart where, having once been dethroned as an usurper, all was in arms against him.

'If I must indeed renounce every dearer hope,' resumed he, 'then in your friendship, my ever dear Miss Montreville, I must seek the happiness of my after-life, and surely' – 'Oh no,' interrupted Laura, 'that must not be – the part, the little part of your happiness which will depend upon earthly connections, you must find in that of some fortunate woman who has yet a heart to give.' 'How can you name it to me?' cried De Courcy half indignantly! 'Can he who has known you Laura, admired in you all that is noble, loved in you all that is enchanting, transfer his heart to some common-place being? – You are my business – you are my pleasure – I toil but to be worthy of you – your approbation is my sweetest reward – all earthly things are precious to me but as you share in them – even a better world borrows hope from you. And is this a love to be bestowed on some soulless thing? No, Laura, I cannot, I will not change. If I cannot win your love, I will admit no substitute but your friendship.'

'Indeed, Mr De Courcy,' cried Laura, unconsciously pressing, in the energy of speech, the hand which held hers. 'Indeed it is to no common-place woman that I wish to resign you. Lonely as my own life must be, its chief pleasures must arise from the happiness of my friends, and to know that you are happy.' – Laura stopped, for she felt her own voice grow tremulous. 'But we will not talk of this now,' resumed she, 'I shall be absent for some months at least, and in that time you will bring yourself to think differently. Promise me at least to make the attempt.'

'No, Laura,' answered De Courcy, 'that I cannot promise. I will never harass you with importunity or complaint, but the love of you shall be my heart's treasure, it shall last though life – beyond life – and if you cannot love me, give in return only such kind thoughts as you would bestow on one who would promote your happiness at the expence of his own. And promise me, dearest Laura, that when we meet, you will not receive me with suspicion or reserve, as if you feared that I should presume on your favour, or persecute you with solicitations. Trust to my honour, trust to my love itself for sparing you all unavailing entreaty. Promise me then, ever to consider me as a friend, a faithful tender friend; and forget, till my weakness reminds you of it, that ever you knew me as a lover.'

'Ah, Mr De Courcy,' cried Laura, tears filling her eyes, 'what thoughts but the kindest can I ever have of him who comforted my father's sorrows, who relieved – in a manner that made relief indeed a kindness – relieved my father's wants? And what suspicion, what coldness can I ever feel towards him whom my father loved and honoured! Yes I will trust you; for I know that you are as far above owing favours to compassion as to fear.'

'A thousand thanks, beloved Laura,' cried De Courcy, kissing her hands, 'and thus I seal our compact. One thing more; shall I trespass on your noble frankness, if I ask you whether, had not another stolen the blessing, I might have hoped to awaken a warmer regard? whether any labour, any cares could have won for me what he has forfeited?'

Silent and blushing, Laura stood for a few moments with her eyes fixed on the ground, then raising them, said, 'From you I fear no wrong construction of my words, and will frankly own to you that for my own sake, as well as yours, I wish you had been known to me ere the serpent wound me in his poisoned folds. I believe, indeed, that no mortal but himself could have inspired the same – what shall I call an infatuation with which reason had nothing to do. But you have the virtues which I have been taught to love, and – and – But what avails it now? I was indeed a social creature; domestic habits, domestic wishes strong in me. But what avails it now!'

'And was there a time when you could have loved me, Laura? Blessings on you for the concession. It shall cheer my exiled heart when you are far distant; sooth me with delightful day-dreams of what might have been; and give my solitude a charm which none but you could bring to the most social hour.'

'Your solitude, my honoured friend,' replied Laura, 'needs it not; it has better and nobler charms; the charms of usefulness, of piety; and long may these form your business and delight. But what makes me linger with you. I meant to have hastened home that I might avoid one as unlike to you as confidence is to fear; the feelings which you each inspire – Farewell. I trust I shall soon hear that you are well and happy.'

Loath to part, De Courcy endeavoured to detain her while he again gave utterance to his strong affection; and when she would be gone, bade her farewell in language so solemn, so tender, that all her self-command could not repress the tears which trickled down her cheeks. They parted; he followed her to beg that she would think of him sometimes. Again she left him; again he had some little boon to crave. She reached the gate, and looking back saw De Courcy standing motionless where she had last quitted him. She beckoned a farewell. The gate closed after her, and De Courcy felt as if one blank dreary waste had blotted the fair face of nature.

CHAPTER XXVIII

The evening was closing, when Laura proceeded on her way. She had outstaid her purposed time, and from every bush by the path side she expected to see Hargrave steal upon her; in every gust of the chill November wind she thought she heard his footstep. She passed the last cottages connected with Norwood. The evening fires glanced cheerfully through the casements, and the voice of rustic merriment came softened on the ear. 'Amiable De Courcy!' thought Laura. 'The meanest of his dependents finds comfort in his protection, while the being on whom I have lavished the affection which might have rejoiced that worthy heart, makes himself an object of dread, even to her whom he pretends to love.' She reached home, however, without interruption, and was going to join Lady Pelham in the sitting-room; when happening to pass a looking-glass, she observed that her eyes still bore traces of the tears she had been shedding, and, in dread of the merciless raillery of her aunt, she retired to her own room. There, with an undefined feeling of despondence, she sat down to re-consider her conversation with De Courcy.

Never was task more easy, or more unprofitable. She remembered every word that De Courcy had uttered; remembered the very tone, look, and gesture with which they were spoken. She recollected too all that she had said in reply; but she could by no means unravel the confused effects of the scene upon her own mind. She certainly pitied her lover to a very painful degree. 'Poor De Courcy!' said she, accompanying the half-whisper with a heavy sigh. But having, in the course of half an hour's rumination, repeated this soliloquy about twenty times, she began to recollect that De Courcy had borne his disappointment with considerable philosophy, and appeared to derive no small comfort from the prospect of an intercourse of mere friendship. This fortunate recollection, however, not immediately relieving her, she endeavoured to account for her depression by laying hold of a vague idea which was floating in her mind, that she had not on this occasion acted as she ought. Friendships between young persons of different sexes were proverbial fomenters of the tender passion; and though she was herself in perfect safety, was it right to expose to such hazard the peace of De Courcy? Was it generous, was it even honourable to increase the difficulties of his self-conquest, by admitting him to the intimacy of friendship? It was true he had voluntarily sought the post of danger: but then he was under the dominion of an influence which did not allow him to weigh consequences; and was it not unpardonable in her, who was in full possession of herself, to sanction, to aid his imprudence? Yet how could she have rejected a friendship which did her so much honour? the friendship of the man whom her father had so loved and respected! of the man to whom her father had wished to see her connected by the closest ties! the man to whom she owed obligations never to be repaid? Alas! how had she acknowledged these obligations? By suffering the most amiable of mankind to sport with his affections, while she had weakly thrown away her own. But the mischief was not yet totally irremediable; and dazzled by the romantic generosity of sacrificing her highest earthly joy to the restoration of her benefactor's quiet, she snatched a pen intending to retract her promise. An obsolete notion of decorum was for once favourable to a lover, and Laura saw the impropriety of writing to De Courcy. Besides, it occurred to her that she might withdraw into Scotland, without formally announcing the reason of her retreat; and thus leave herself at liberty to receive De Courcy as a friend whenever discretion should warrant this indulgence. After her most magnanimous resolves however, feeling her mind as confused and comfortless as before, she determined to obtain the benefit of impartial counsel, and changed the destination of the paper on which she had already written 'My dear friend,' from De Courcy to Mrs Douglas.

With all her native candour and singleness of heart did Laura detail her case to the monitress of her youth. To reveal De Courcy's name was contrary to her principles; but she described his situation, his mode of life, and domestic habits. She enlarged upon his character, her obligations to him, and the regret which, for his sake, she felt, that particular circumstances rendered her incapable of such an attachment as was necessary to conjugal happiness. She mentioned her compliance with her lover's request of a continuance of their former intimacy; confessed her doubts of the propriety of her concession; and entreated Mrs Douglas's explicit opinion on the past, as well as her directions for the future.

Her mind thus unburdened, she was less perplexed and uneasy; and the next morning cheerfully commenced her journey, pleasing herself with the prospect of being released from the harassing attendance of Hargrave. On the evening of the second day the travellers reached Grosvenor Street; and the unsuspecting Laura, with renewed sentiments of gratitude to her aunt, revisited the dwelling which had received her when she could claim no other shelter.

Her annuity having now become due, Laura, soon after her arrival in town, one day borrowed Lady Pelham's chariot, that she might go to receive the money, and purchase some necessary additions to her wardrobe. Remembering, however, the inconveniencies to which she had been subjected by her imprudence in leaving herself without money, she regulated her disbursements by the strictest economy; determined to reserve a sum, which, besides a little gift to her cousin, might defray the expences of a journey to Scotland.

Her way chancing to lie through Holborn, a recollection of the civilities of her old landlady, induced her to stop and inquire for Mrs Dawkins. The good woman almost compelled her to alight; overwhelmed her with welcomes, and asked a hundred questions in a breath, giving in return a very detailed account of all her family affairs. She informed Laura, that Miss Julia, having lately read the life of a heroine who in the capacity of a governess captivated the heart of a great lord, had been seized with the desire to seek adventures under a similar character; but finding that recommendations for experience were necessary to her admission into any family of rank, she had condescended to serve her apprenticeship in the tuition of the daughters of an eminent cowfeeder. The good woman expressed great compassion for the pupils of so incompetent a teacher, from whom they could learn nothing useful. 'But that was,' she observed, 'their father's look out, and in the mean time, it was so far well that July was doing something towards her keeping.' After a visit of some length Laura wished to be gone, but her hostess would not suspend her eloquence long enough to suffer her to take leave. She was at last obliged to interrupt the harangue; and breaking from her indefatigable entertainer, hurried home, not a little alarmed lest her stay should expose her on her return home to oratory of a different kind. Lady Pelham, however, received her most graciously, examined all her purchases, and enquired very particularly into the cost of each. She calculated the amount, and the balance of the annuity remaining in Laura's possession. 'Five and thirty pounds!' she exclaimed – 'what in the world, Laura, will you do with so much money?' 'Perhaps five and thirty different things,' answered Laura, smiling; 'I have never had, nor ever shall have, half so much money as I could spend.' 'Oh you extravagant thing!' cried Lady Pelham patting her cheek. 'But take care that some one does not save you the trouble of spending it. You should be very sure of the locks of your drawers. You had better let me put your treasures into my bureau.' Laura was about to comply, when recollecting that there might be some awkwardness in asking her aunt for the money while she concealed its intended destination, she thanked Lady Pelham, but said she supposed it would be perfectly safe in her own custody; and then, as usual, avoided impending altercation by hastening out of the room. She thought Lady Pelham looked displeased; but as that was a necessary effect of the slightest contradiction, she saw it without violent concern; and the next time they met, her Ladyship was again all smiles and courtesy.

Three days, 'three wondrous days', all was sunshine and serenity. Lady Pelham was the most ingenious, the most amusing, the most fascinating of woman-kind. 'What a pity,' thought Laura, 'that my aunt's spirits are so fluctuating! How delightful she can be when she pleases!' In the midst of these brilliant hours, Lady Pelham one morning ran into the room where Laura was at work – 'Here's a poor fellow,' said she, with a look and voice all compassion, 'who has sent me his account, and says he must go to jail if it is not paid instantly. But it is quite impossible for me to get the money till tomorrow.' 'To jail!' cried Laura, shocked – 'What is the amount?' 'Forty pounds,' said Lady Pelham, 'and I have not above ten in the house.' 'Take mine,' cried Laura, hastening to bring it. Lady Pelham stopped her. 'No, my dear good girl,' said she, 'I wont take away your little store, perhaps you may want it yourself.' 'Oh no,' said Laura, 'I cannot want it, pray let me bring it.' 'The poor man has a large family,' said Lady Pelham, 'but indeed I am very unwilling to take – ' Her Ladyship spared further regrets, for Laura was out of hearing. She returned in a moment with the whole of her wealth, out of which, Lady Pelham, after some further hesitation, was prevailed upon to take thirty pounds; a robbery to which she averred that she would never have consented, but for the wretched situation of an innocent family, and her own certainty of repaying the debt in a day or two at farthest. Several days, however, passed away, and Lady Pelham made no mention of discharging her debt. Laura wondered a little that her aunt should forget a promise so lately and so voluntarily given; but her attention was entirely diverted from the subject by the following letter from Mrs Douglas.

'You see, my dear Laura, I lose no time in answering your letter, though, for the first time, I answer you with some perplexity. The weight which you have always kindly allowed to my opinion, makes me at all times give it with timidity; but that is not the only reason of my present hesitation. I confess that in spite of the apparent frankness and perspicuity with which you have written, I am not able exactly to comprehend you. You describe a man of respectable abilities, of amiable dispositions, of sound principles, and engaging manners. You profess that such qualities, aided by intimacy, have secured your cordial friendship, while obligations beyond return have enlivened this friendship by the warmest gratitude. But, just as I am about to conclude that all this has produced its natural effect, and to prepare my congratulations for a happy occasion, you kill my expectations with a dismal sentence, expressing your regrets for having been obliged to reject the addresses of this excellent person. Now this might have been intelligible enough, supposing you were pre-occupied by a stronger attachment. But so far from this, you declare yourself absolutely incapable of any exclusive affection, or of such a regard as is necessary to any degree of happiness in the conjugal state. I know not, my dear Laura, what ideas you may entertain of the fervency suitable to wedded love; but, had you been less peremptory, I should have thought it not unlikely to spring from a young woman's "most cordial esteem" and "warmest gratitude" towards a young man with "expressive black eyes," and "the most benevolent smile in the world."

'From the tenor of your letter, as well as from some expressions you have formerly dropped, I am led to conjecture that you think an extravagant passion necessary to the happiness of married life. You will smile at the expression; but if it offends you, change it for any other descriptive of a feeling beyond tender friendship, and you will find the substitute nearly synonymous with the original. Now this idea appears to me rather erroneous; and I cannot help thinking that calm, dispassionate affection, at least on the side of the lady, promises more permanent comfort.

'All male writers on the subject of love, so far as my little knowledge extends, represent possession as the infallible cure of passion. A very unattractive picture, it must be confessed, of the love of that lordly sex! but they themselves being the painters, the deformity is a pledge of the resemblance, and I own my small experience furnishes no instance to contradict their testimony. Taking its truth then for granted, I need not inquire whether the passions of our own sex be equally fleeting. If they be, the enamoured pair soon find themselves at best in the same situation with those who marry from sober sentiments of regard; that is, obliged to seek happiness in the esteem, the confidence, the forbearance of each other. But if, in the female breast, the fervours of passion be less transient, I need not describe to you the sufferings of feminine sensibility under half-returned ardour, nor the stings of feminine pride under the unnatural and mortifying transference of the arts of courtship. I trust, my dear child, that should you even make a marriage of passion, your self-command will enable you to smother its last embers in your own bosom, while your prudence will improve the short advantage which is conferred by its empire in that of your husband, to lay the foundation of an affection more tender than friendship, more lasting than love.

'Again, it is surely of the utmost consequence to the felicity of wedded life, that a just and temperate estimate be formed of the character of him to whose temper we must accommodate ourselves; whose caprices we must endure; whose failings we must pardon, whether the discord burst upon us in thunder, or steal on amid harmonies which render it imperceptible, perhaps half-pleasing. Small chance is there that passion should view with the calm extenuating eye of reason the faults which it suddenly detects in the god of its idolatry. The once fervent votary of the idol, finding it unworthy of his worship, neglects the useful purposes to which he might apply the gold which it contains.

'I have other reasons for thinking that passion is at best unnecessary to conjugal happiness; but even if I should make you a proselyte to my opinion, the conviction would, in the present case, probably come too late. Such a man as you describe will probably be satisfied with the answer he has received. He will certainly never importune you, nor poorly attempt to extort from your pity what he could not win from your love. His attachment will soon subside into a friendly regard for you, or be diverted into another channel by virtues similar to those which first attracted him. I only wish, my dear Laura, that after this change takes place, the "circumstances" may remain in force which render you "for ever incapable of repaying him with a love like his own." If you are sure that these circumstances are decisive, I foresee no evil which can result from your cultivating a friendship so honourable and advantageous to you, as that of a man of letters and a Christian; whose conversation may improve your mind, and whose experience may supply that knowledge of the world which is rarely attainable by women in the more private walks of life.

'To him I should suppose that no danger could arise from such an intercourse. We are all apt to over-rate the strength and durability of the attachments we excite. I believe the truth is, that in a vigorous, well-governed, and actively employed mind, love rarely becomes that resistless tyrant which vanity and romances represent him. His empire is divided by the love of fame or the desire of usefulness, the eagerness of research or the triumph of discovery. But even solitude, idleness, and imagination cannot long support his dominion without the assistance of hope; and I take it for granted from your tried honour and generosity, that your answer has been too explicit to leave your lover in any doubt that your sentence is final.

'I own I could have wished, that the virtues of my ever dear Laura had found in the sacred characters of wife and mother a larger field than a state of celibacy can afford; but I have no fear that your happiness or respectability should ever depend upon outward circumstances. I have no doubt that moderate wishes and useful employments will diffuse cheerfulness in the loneliest dwelling, while piety will people it with guests from heaven.